


I'll come home to her

by halseyxkristen



Category: Portrait de la jeune fille en feu | Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:07:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22393024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halseyxkristen/pseuds/halseyxkristen
Summary: My interpretation of what would have happened if, when  Héloïse asked Marianne if she was asking her to resist her marriage, instead of Marianne saying "no" she would have said "yes", asking  Héloïse not to marry the man she was supposed to.
Relationships: Héloïse & Marianne (Portrait of a Lady on Fire), Héloïse/Marianne (Portrait of a Lady on Fire)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 156





	I'll come home to her

“Go on. Say what burdens your heart. I believed you braver” she doesn’t hold it in anymore, she cannot.

“I also believed you braver.” Marianne musters up the ounce of courage she has left, in the face of this storm she knows will approach as their limited days together pass

“You find me docile.” She lacks finality in her breath.

Marianne feels the word as a dagger in her heart. “Docile” is one of the last words she would associate with the enchanting woman in front of her. She wants her to know she’d follow her to the edge of this cruel world they’ve both been thrown into by the gods. That she would worship her. That she would light up a thousand other paintings if only to memorize her once again, over and over.

“Worse, you imagine I’m collusive. You imagine my pleasure.” Hurt stems from her words, the word “pleasure” twisting in her gut.

“It’s a way of avoiding hope” she breathes slowly, as if she would divide into splinters were she to utter all that she thinks, all that she feels from the woman standing right in front of her.

“Imagine me happy or unhappy but do not imagine me guilty. You would prefer me to resist” she seems so far from Marianne’s touch.

“Yes.” It’s all she can mutter. It aches.

“Are you asking me to?” now there is finality in her voice. Héloïse never seems to tiptoe around a matter. “Answer me.”

“No” is what she should be saying. The reality is that they could never be, nothing seems to be on their side. The custom, the arts, the world. Even mythology seems to prepare them a trap, the passionate kind of love they have always has an obstacle. Always finds itself wrapped into patterns throughout history where the pure thing that keeps all great love stories aflame is the denial of fulfillment itself. It is the sword between Tristan and Isolde that maintains their enchantment with love.

But they are not one of those great love stories; what she knows is that something magnetic pulls her towards Héloïse, and she figures that may root from her own internal world, finally finding someone who does not sugarcoat, as if Héloïse is the answer to her prayers for fresh air.

With Héloïse’s bright, troubled eyes peering right into hers, reddened lines scattering over her gaze from her wet tears, still unshed, she cannot bear to lie. 

She can feel her own eyes sting from the desperate attempt to escape that which should be certain for the blonde’s future.

With a final breath and tears now freely streaming down her cheeks, she croaks out a heavy “please.”

She repeats the words into Héloïse’s chest, damping her pale skin, as the woman in the green dress clutches to her as if Marianne were the last anchor available to keep her in this world. She brushes her hair from her wet eyes, watching the woman she feels so intensely for break into pieces in her arms. Shushing her, she places kisses on her cheeks, her forehead, the corner of her mouth.

This is what she has been waiting for, without even knowing this. It is the breakdown they both needed, so they can take life into their hands somehow; no matter how clumsy and shaky those may be.

She nods. “Very well, my love. I will. I don’t yet know how, but I will.”

They finish the painting together, and Marianne is surprised that she doesn’t feel ashamed about her manifestation earlier. She clings to Héloïse’s side with a sudden firm security, although they know nothing is for certain.

***

“Your mother is convinced that Milan would be good for you.” Marianne lies on the sofa, her head resting in Héloïse’s lap. The fire is fervently burning in the fireplace, and her eyes are slowly starting to close, the energy of the day wearing off. It’s a calm night.

Héloïse hums “It would be better for her.”

“Where would you want to go? Presuming we could find a way.”

“Don’t be so uncertain. We will.” She remains in silence for a while, pondering. “You’ve mentioned you had a home in Paris.” She shies away when proposing it, something so uncharacteristic

“Your mother would never allow you.” Marianne sighs

“She doesn’t have to know.”

Marianne does have a home in Paris. It has been gifted to her by her father, just like his painting business will be hers to continue.

***

The dreaded day arrives, fast paced and cruel for both of them. They cling onto each other until it becomes almost suspicious, reluctantly letting go. When Marianne departs tears are resting in their eyes, but Héloïse rises above them, lifting her chin when she sees the figure of her lover become smaller and fleeting in the brisk air and the wind.

The following days are hectic for her mother, but for Héloïse it feels as if she’s moving through mist.

“You will have no need of very thick garments, my dear. Milan has a dream of a weather.” Her mother reassures as she struggles to fit Héloïse’s clothes into a wooden suitcase.

She smiles slightly, eyes always absent, always gazing into the abyss. She feels as if half of her thoughts left with Marianne; obsessing over whether she has arrived home well, whether she managed to take care of everything.

The weather in Milan is indeed a dreamy one. She is sure her mother is going to enjoy it here, what with the striking sunlight and the vividly lit city, people roaming about the lively streets. It is the first day, and she can’t compose herself well enough- the nerves in her stomach prevent her from eating, sleeping, anything. She has seen her fiancé one time, but it’s as if she forgot his face and voice the moment she stepped out the door, leaving him a few steps behind her; she doesn’t manage to care about how impolite and unladylike it seems. 

She has been clutching to the letter received from Marianne for the past days, always making sure it stays hidden enough underneath her garments. She is aware that the wisest choice would have been burning it, but she couldn’t bring herself to. Not when it’s the only sure part of Marianne she has been having these days. Her eyes are wild, as she arrives to the opera with her fiancé, feeling his gaze burn into the back of her head. She looks out for every sound, every voice that she thinks may utter her name even in the lowest tone. Marianne has been clear- the man should be here by now. That, if everything went according to plan.

Her dark blue dress feels itchy, her whole body feels like it has been burning slowly, just waiting to erupt. “It is now or never” she thinks as she notices a dark haired man tap her fiancé’s shoulder, making him turn around.

The man looks her in the eyes intently, nodding subtly. As he seems to be distracting him, Héloïse starts walking, pace sped up in the crowd, circling the two, so that by the time the stranger leaves and turns to the exit, she is already there behind a glass wall, waiting for him, her breath hitching in her throat. Her fiancé must be already looking for her and the crowd won’t stay so compact for long.

“Louis” he introduces himself quickly, as he tugs on her hand “we don’t have much time. Come quick, now. I have a chariot waiting for us outside.”

She can already hear her fiancé scream her name in the crowd, muttering excuses as he probably moves from one corner to another.

She nods and does as he says. An odd feeling is rushing through her veins as they sprint over and get inside. It seems like it takes forever to move through the mass of people.

He orders the driver to leave in a hurry, the wheels moving erratically underneath them, and she feels everything in her spine. She finally allows herself to laugh. It’s a laugh of fresh air as she shakes her head. She can finally introduce herself.

“My name is Héloïse.”

He smirks. “I know that. Marianne has made sure to repeat your name and the way you look for the past few days, just so I don’t mistake you for anyone else. I can see why my cousin is so smitten with you.”

She thinks of the way she embraced her mother, the last time for God knows how long. She thinks of the letter she’s left her on the bed, begging her mother not to look for her, begging her to remain in Milan, reconcile with her old friends. The weight of the most valuable jewelry she could find is heavy against her thigh, under the large dress she is wearing. She has taken it for an ounce of more security, even though Marianne reassured her not to worry too much about money and fortune- the way she managed to live very well off alone from her earnings and her father’s business, they will both manage in the future as well.

So many thoughts, plans are swirling inside her mind as the long journey to Paris unravels itself and seems to never end. She counts down the hours until she is to see her lover again, to gaze into her eyes and never let her go. She is thinking of what she might like to do- something that does not tie her down, yet does not put her under too much public attention either. She knows she will need to lay low for some time, just to make sure their intimacy and safety is not jeopardized.

She thinks she might like to write someday. Or maybe teach something. She is ripped away from her imaginary world when Louis taps her arm lightly.

“We are here, at last. She will be waiting for you.”

Héloïse feels exhausted from the journey, but her fingertips quiver for seeing Marianne again.

When she sees her, dressed in the same red dress that she used to wear when painting her, there is nothing else around for Héloïse. It’s just Marianne, with her bright eyes and composed smile looking at her, welcoming her with open arms. For the sake of public decency, they breathe each other in abruptly before separating, eyes beaming.

“Welcome home” Marianne whispers into her ear

They don’t speak much until they arrive inside Marianne’s living room. It is so alike the young woman; bright, light brown curtains pulled away from the large windows positioned towards the city. It is in a quieter neighborhood, somewhat retreated, and Héloïse isn’t surprised- Marianne is also rather the quiet kind.

It is only after Louis has left that Marianne invites Héloïse to sit down on the dark blue, velvet sofa. But Héloïse wastes no time, tears brimming in her eyes, smile as wide as Marianne has seen it the first time, and they meet halfway, enclosing each other in a desperate hug.

“It’s such joy that we’re here.” Héloïse says in between the tears of anticipation, of fear, of uncertainty that she has been harboring for the past excruciatingly long weeks. Their fingers intertwine, lips biting down each other in a passionate wave, now that nobody can stop them, now that they are here now. They are here now.

Héloïse discovers their bedroom- _their_ bedroom- is decorated with a large, new painting over their bed. As they lie there, only the sheets between their bodies, a certain kind of warmth present among the two of them, with Héloïse’s head resting on Marianne’s collarbone, they talk about the things they have never had time before. Their childhood, what kind of food each of them despises, some of the most trivial aspects of life, because now they have the moments for them all.

“I’ll teach you how to swim properly, someday in the summer.” Marianne grins as she brushes her lips against the top of the blonde woman’s head.

“Am I also to endure your poor cooking abilities?” Héloïse teases as she lifts her head up to look at the woman who has been devouring her thoughts lately.

Marianne scrunches up her nose “I suppose you are going to have to learn to cook yourself, then.”

Héloïse is about to protest when she notices the painting above them in more detail. She sits up, turning her head.

She immediately recognizes herself, although you cannot she her face. The starry sky above her is both frightening and blissful, and she smiles fondly at the flame on her dress.

“I had many worries on my mind.” Marianne justifies “I felt the need to get them out somehow.”

“What did you name it?”

“Portrait de la jeune fille en feu”

**Author's Note:**

> criticism is very appreciated. hope i did them justice, even though they're very layered and sometimes difficult to fully grasp.  
> Céline Sciamma screamed gay rights with this movie


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